Swing Sets and Seesaws
by angelic tourniquet
Summary: Sometimes what happens on the playground can define you, for better or for worse. A story about a young Faberry relationship.


A/N: I don't know where this came from really. I think I was a little upset about having to explain how Rachel and Quinn could ever possibly have a relationship. And I don't know, I was a little angsty. I hope you enjoy this little fic. All comments and reviews are appreciated. Thank you.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.**

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You're tired of these movies. Just once you'd like to see an ending where it's the girl who gets the girl.

You think about your parents and their twisted, unhappy marriage, and you know you'd much rather marry the brunette next to you, with the beaming smile. You hold her hand in your own and say as much.

"Girls can't marry girls, that's stupid."

You think that it is stupid that you can't marry the girl you love.

"My two dads are married." Rachel smiles affectionately and nods with pride. And true is the saying that pride comes before the fall, because seconds later she's on the ground, covered in dirt, her sundress wrinkled.

"You're a freak Berry," the boy sneers.

"So are your dads," says another.

You bend down to help her, trying to get the dirt off and pull her to her feet.

"Don't touch her, she'll give it to you," squeals one of the girls.

You're confused. "Give me what?" you ask blankly, frozen at first by the words.

"Her weird disease. It probably runs in her weird family."

"My dad says they're going to Hell," says another voice. A quiet gasp surrounds you.

"You can't say Hell," and that little girl's voice is clamped shut by her own hand, she's just repeated the bad word. You look down at Rachel whose eyes are tearing up and you're sure she's drawing blood from the lip she has trapped between her teeth. "You're wrong!" you scream. Your voice is full of malice and anger, a tone they will later dub as signature Quinn Fabray.

"You're both freaks."

"Freaks! Freaks!" come the chorus of singsong voices. And suddenly you're at your full height, young but still intimidating. You push the closest one with all your strength and then he's on the ground.

"I'm telling," says someone, and the horde scatters. You reach out to Rachel and pull her into the safety of your arms. You hold onto one another. You don't know that this will be the last time you defend her. She's biting back tears and her breathing's all wrong. You tell her not to worry about them, that it doesn't matter what they think. You don't realise that this nugget of advice will keep her strong in years to come, when you won't be there to remind her yourself.

You take her hand and lead her to the swing set. She likes them. She likes the freedom of flying, but also the safety of knowing you're right behind her, pushing her further towards the clouds, or slowing her down when she gets too high. You tell her to sit before stepping back to push her. She grabs your hands. "You don't," she hesitates briefly so you give her hand a gentle squeeze. "You don't think we're freaks, do you?" she struggles softly. Tears trail patterns down her cheeks and you ache for her.

"No. But even if you are, then I wanna be a freak too." You say it firmly. You like Rachel. You like her dads. They pick you up after school when your parents forget.

You want to make her smile again so you say, "I bet you could touch that cloud." She looks up to where you're pointing and her face radiates with her beautiful smile.

"Really?" she asks, voice full of wonder.

"Let's try," you say. You place both your hands on her lower back and give her a gentle push. Her warmth flows into you like she's sucking the sun through her pointed toes and feeding it straight to you. You admire the sun dancing in her brunette hair, the shape of her body as she extends eagerly into the beckoning sky. You commit this moment to memory.

Later that day, after a conference between your parents, Rachel's parents and your teacher, you have a sense that something is going to change.

"I don't want you seeing that girl again Quinn." Your mother's voice curls the word into a snarl, seemingly changing it from 'girl' into some scaly monster. You recoil from it because you know that Rachel is beautiful. You watch your mother mixing her martini; measuring equal parts of self-loathing with bigotry. But you don't understand. "She's a bad influence, an abomination… her and those men," another malicious sneer disguised by the tinkling of the liquid hitting her glass.

"Rachel's my friend," you say indignantly.

"Not anymore. You're a Fabray," she replies, eyeing the glass hungrily. "I don't know how they can let such riff-raff into that school," she says, talking to your father now.

"They're not riff-raff," you start to say defensively. You're cut off by the stench of your mother's alcohol saturated breath on your face.

"You will do as you're told Quinn," she says, words so corrosive they eat at your flesh. "You are not to spend time with that girl, you will not look at her or talk to her. Do I make myself clear?" She spits as she talks at you. You feel tainted by the flecks of her vodka saliva. Your father is standing over you now, bearing down on your small body and you want to shrink away to nothingness.

"Yes," you murmur quietly.

Rachel is in tears on the sofa, cuddled between her fathers. One strokes her hair; the other rubs comforting circles on her back. She cries harder each time she asks, "Why would you say that?"

Her fathers share a pained look. They were given first hand experience of the older Fabrays' prejudice at the meeting that afternoon. "I know it's hard sweetie, but you'll understand one day," says her dad. She hiccups twice and chokes out, "But why would she not be my friend anymore? What did I do?"

Her daddy's heart breaks at the question. It's innocent. She's innocent. They both are. But there was no talking to the Fabrays. Bigotry masked by polite propriety.

"You haven't done anything wrong," her daddy reassures her. "I know you don't understand –"

"I don't either," says her dad abruptly.

"But Rachel, this isn't about you. I need you to remember that okay sweetie?" Rachel stares at them, brown eyes defiant under the onslaught of hot tears. "You'll see! She'll always be my friend." Her fathers sigh collectively. "I hope you're right honey. But if not –"

"No!" she yells.

You keep your eyes down to avoid looking at her. When the teacher moves you into a different seat, away from her (at your parent's request), your body aches from the distance. Her puzzled looks and hurt eyes make you hate yourself. At recess, you know you have to hurt her because her questions and pleas are hurting you and you feel like you don't have a choice. You make sure that everyone is watching so you only have to do this once.

"Leave me alone!" you yell harshly. "You're a freak Berry. Stay away from me." When you push her down into the dirt you feel something inside of you die. Everyone laughs at her, easily forgetting how just yesterday you protected her from just such an encounter. You grab the hand of the closest boy; you think his name is Finn, and walk off toward the seesaw. You desperately fight the urge to look back at the broken girl on the ground (the girl you broke), because God is watching, and your mother told you He would punish you for disobeying her wishes. You block out the cries of anguish as someone kicks sand into Rachel's face. When you jump on the seesaw the world seems to bow down at the feet of the new Quinn Fabray.

THE END.


End file.
